


exposure

by zeraparker



Category: Formula E RPF, Motorsport RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Comfort Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-17 10:19:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16972749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeraparker/pseuds/zeraparker
Summary: It's the kind of sex that you'd have in the middle of the night, hidden under blankets in a too small bed or some dingy hotel room at the end of the world. As it is, they're in the middle of London, the grey midday sky visible through the gauze curtains in front of the window, a bit of a draft from the open door into the hallway making Jean-Eric's skin prickle.~ Follow up to the Off the Grid video.





	exposure

**Author's Note:**

> Yo, wazzup. I'm at it with the random porn again, so have fun. Because seriously, that Off the Grid video was just too inspiring. Have fun!

Knowing beforehand that Andre will bring a camera team with him, the same team that already filmed the days after winning his championship, that Jean-Eric allowed some intimate glimpses into his life, his home and his friends, doesn't make it easier. He hears the doorbell ringing, presses the buzzer to let them in and waits at the top of the stairs, but his breath still catches when he sees Andre coming up the stairs, that small, shy smile Andre has for him hidden from the camera following up the stairs behind his back.

Jean-Eric knows he's grinning like an idiot when they greet in the doorway, their hands clasping in a way that will look good on the tape when all Jean-Eric wants is to draw Andre into a hug, into a kiss, his lips tingling with how he has to restrain himself from just closing the door between Andre and the camera team to greet him like he wants to. He can see the longing reflected in Andre's eyes, in the mischievous twinkle there, and it just makes the want flare up in him more.

To cover the tension that he is sure must be tangible between them, Jean-Eric ushers them all into the flat, into the living room, greeting the camera team and bringing them beverages. He plays the perfect host, waiting for them to set up their cameras and microphones, allows them to direct him to sit on the squashy couch next to Andre. Jean-Eric makes sure there are two cushions between them as he folds his legs under himself, the urge just to lean over, to tumble Andre into the cushions almost too great to resist. He reaches for one of the plastic bottles on the table, unscrews it and takes a long sip from it against his dry throat, twists it in his hands just to have something to occupy his hands, proceeds to show Andre the boat model he could bother the Hugo Boss guys to giving him, the letter he got from the President. Andre makes all the appropriate _ooh_ and _aah_ noises for the camera, retrieving a frame still wrapped in plastic foil he brought as a gift for framing the letter from Macron.

All in all it takes about an hour before the camera team starts packing up, having got enough material to fill the couple minutes they want for the edit later. Andre stays seated on the sofa, playing with his phone as Jean-Eric brings them to the door, saying his goodbyes and shut the door behind them. He can't resist the long exhales, his ears still ringing with the noise of chitchat and too many people, resting his forehead against the door for a couple seconds to get his bearings back.

Strong arms envelope him from behind, Andre's body pressing against his back, his lips at the back of Jean-Eric's neck.

“I'm glad they're gone,” he says, his voice deep and low, so close to Jean-Eric's ear it makes him shiver.

Jean-Eric exhales again, his body going pliant beneath Andre's touch. Andre's hands, fingers spread wide over his stomach, slowly stroke up and down, mapping him out, shifting the fabric of his thin sweater upwards, then push underneath the fabric to touch skin. Jean-Eric can't help the soft noise that escapes him, reaches back to touch Andre's neck, the side of his face, before he can't restrain himself any more. He twists, turning in Andre's embrace, and they're kissing even before they can properly wrap their arms around each other, mouths hungry. Andre pushes forwards, pressing Jean-Eric back against the wood of the door, crowding him with his body as they slowly lick into each other's mouth. The want that Jean-Eric has felt since laying eyes on Andre about an hour ago, simmering beneath the surface has turned the urge into a lazy longing, thick as molasses, and he gives himself over to it, meeting Andre's tongue and lips with leisurely swipes of his own, fingers twisted into the white fabric of Andre's t shirt.

“That was torture,” Andre murmurs against the skin of Jean-Eric's jaw when they break apart, mouthing along the skin to his neck. Jean-Eric isn't sure whether he means the last hour or the past days, knows by now how much Andre hates talking about himself, how he keeps his private life close to his heart.

Jean-Eric combs his fingers through Andre's hair, allowing his own head to thump back against the door behind him to give Andre more space to lick and bite at his neck, wants to say something reassuring, when the doorbell rings, startling them both out of their trance like state.

“Fuck,” Jean-Eric curses quietly, glancing to the side where the little lamp on the door control panel blinks. He reaches out, takes down the receiver from the panel, hopes his voice doesn't sound too breathless. “Yes?”

“Sorry,” Leena says through the line. “I think I forgot my phone upstairs.”

Jean-Eric blinks his eyes closed, counting to three in his head. “Yeah, sure, come on back up,” he says when all he wants is to tell her to _go away_ , but they're his team too.

The air that hits him when Andre takes a step back is like a bucket of ice, the look on Andre's face one of anxiety for a moment before it shutters, turning blank. He takes another step back before he turns around, disappearing through the door into Jean-Eric's bedroom.

Jean-Eric curses, reaching down to adjust himself in his jeans, trying to make himself look like he hasn't just desperately made out with his teammate. Before he can really compose himself, there's a knock against the door he is still leaning on, and with another breath he turns, pushing down the handle.

“So sorry,” Leena says sheepishly as she bustles back into the flat, heading straight for the living room. “There's just so much stuff on my mind, but- ah, see I knew the little fucker was somewhere around here,” she says as she leans down past the coffee table to pick up the phone from where it slipped to the carpet. She holds it up triumphantly, a slight blush covering her cheeks. “Gotcha.” She smiles as she returns to the hallway. “Thanks again for having us.” Jean-Eric leans in to kiss both her cheeks, watching her disappear through the door. He closes it behind her and like before, can't help resting his forehead against it, inwardly counting to ten. If they ring again, he thinks, he's just not going to answer.

When the doorbell stays quiet after a long moment of contemplation, Jean-Eric pushes himself away from the door. He trails the tips of his fingers along the wall as he makes his way down the hallway towards his bedroom.

Andre is sprawled on the bed, his face pushed into the soft pillows. He's toed off his socks. Jean-Eric walks around the bunched up knots of fabric as he nears the bed, can't restrain himself from reaching out to touch the soles of Andre's feet, his ankles. He kneels down on the end of the bed, crawls up over Andre's body. He nuzzles at the back of his legs, tugs with his teeth on the length of leather of Andre's belt, kisses at the bumps of his spine where the fabric of his shirt has worn thin.

Andre sighs into the pillow, his whole body heaving underneath Jean-Eric. He twists his head to the side, just so trying to glance at him, but then closes his eyes. “They gone?” he asks, his voice muffled speaking half against the pillow.

Jean-Eric mouths at his neck, tracing the line of his collar with the tip of his tongue. He can smell the fruity scent of the hair styling products Andre uses over the warm scent of his skin. “Yeah,” he says quietly, not wanting to think about them any more. All he wants to think about now is Andre in his bed.

There's something strange about Andre's mood though, something Jean-Eric can't place. He leans down, stretches out along the length of Andre's body, his weight half on top of Andre, half against his side. Their heads are resting on the same pillow, face only inches apart, breathing the same air, but Andre's eyes are closed, and he could just as much be a thousand miles away. Jean-Eric lifts his hand, cards his fingers through Andre's hair, the careful coif he's styled it into already messed up a little from their hands on each other, slowly disintegrating beneath Jean-Eric's fingers. Andre makes a soft noise, his eyelids fluttering. If Jean-Eric didn't know better, he'd think it was fragility, but that doesn't make sense, doesn't align with the image he has of Andre.

Andre exhales, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips. “You ever top?” he asks quietly.

Jean-Eric's heartbeat stutters, his mind blanking for a second. “Yes,” he answers, his voice equally soft as Andre's, quivering on the single syllable.

Andre's eyes open, just the tiniest sliver of pale grey and blue. “You want to?” It's the natural follow-up to the question before but it still catches Jean-Eric by surprise, enough so that he is speechless for a long moment. It's not like the thought hasn't crossed his mind: of course he's fantasised about all the different ways in which the two of them could fit together, but when it happened - and not yet for as long as some people might like to think - it always felt natural to let Andre take the lead, to succumb to being swept away by him.

“Fuck, Andre,” Jean-Eric says eventually, his voice hoarse with want in a way he hadn't thought possible after all the things they'd already done together. He can see the corner of Andre's mouth quirk upwards and leans in, closing the distance between them to kiss him, to lick into his mouth urgently, the surge of lust from earlier returning with a vengeance. He can't keep his hands to himself, grabbing at every part of Andre he can reach, fingers tugging on the fabric of his shirt, pulling it up to bunch under his arms. Andre lifts his upper body just enough to get rid of it, but resisting the push when Jean-Eric tries to roll them over, to push Andre onto his back.

“Just go slow,” Andre says when he buries his face back into the pillow, wrapping his arms around it. “It's been a while.” There's still something weird in the corners of his eyes, in the twitch of his mouth, something like nervousness, and Jean-Eric isn't sure whether this is a test, and if yes if he can even pass; if this is some sort of weird punishment Andre set for himself or something he genuinely wants, and it makes his stomach churn as much with insecurity as with the primal urge to take, to possess. To steal some time, Jean-Eric gets to his knees, getting rid of his shirt as he does, flinging it into a corner of the room. He climbs over Andre's body again, over the now naked expanse of his back and leans down, lapping at the strong bunch of muscles, the sharp angles of his shoulder blades.

His fingers move along the waistband of Andre's jeans, follow it beneath him, wriggling into the space between Andre's stomach and the duvet he's stretched out on. Andre doesn't really help, making Jean-Eric tug and pull on the leather of his belt, on the metal buckle and the buttons of his jeans until Jean-Eric bites at his skin with a growl, tugging hard enough to lift Andre's hips a little off the bed. “Off,” he murmurs, and Andre complies, raising his hips enough so that Jean-Eric actually has a chance to pull down his jeans, taking Andre's underwear with him in one move as not to have to struggle with him again. He throws the jeans off the bed, getting up to retrieve lube from the bedside table and remove the rest of his own clothing. He wants to be skin to skin with Andre, nothing more in between.

It's the kind of sex that you'd have in the middle of the night, hidden under blankets in a too small bed or some dingy hotel room at the end of the world. As it is, they're in the middle of London, the grey midday sky visible through the gauze curtains in front of the window, a bit of a draft from the open door into the hallway making Jean-Eric's skin prickle. He feels exposed, explicitly naked in a way he hasn't felt around Andre in a long while as he urges Andre to spread his legs, starts working two fingers into him slowly, using too much lube and with his hands shaking.

Jean-Eric can't help cursing under his breath, the tight fit of Andre's body around the tip of one finger pressing down on him as he breaches him. He leans down over Andre's back, presses his forehead against the dip of Andre's spine, mouths at his skin, at the dimples either side of his spine, at the tense muscles there. Andre is almost quivering beneath him, tension vibrating through him as Jean-Eric plays him open carefully. Like with a wild horse he isn't quite sure what will spook him. With his free hand he is palming Andre's hip, the top of his thigh and his arse cheek, a distraction as much as a comfort. He leans back, sitting up a little, watching his fingers in the glistening slick of the lube. The urge to dip his head down, follow his fingers with his tongue lights up at the front of his mind, mixed with the memories of the last time Andre did that for him, something Jean-Eric has never actively done for anyone. His intentions must translate themselves through where he's touching Andre, and when he lowers his head, Andre is quicker, reaching back with one hand to push at Jean-Eric's head.

“No,” he says, not mean or loud, and Jean-Eric bites at the meat of his arse cheek instead. Andre's fingers stroke through his hair distractedly. “Come on, I'm ready,” Andre urges, his voice shaking just a little.

Jean-Eric can't help a disapproving sound. “No you're not,” he says, twisting his finger and making Andre gasp and twitch. He withdraws his finger, pushing in with two.

“Be patient,” he says and then moves up over Andre's back, shifting a little to the side so he can nuzzle at Andre's cheek, kissing him deeply as soon as Andre turns his head far enough that Jean-Eric can reach his lips. Andre sighs into the kiss, relaxing tangibly between Jean-Eric's mouth, a welcome distraction, and the way Jean-Eric fucks him open slowly with his fingers. By the time Jean-Eric can easily twist and curl his fingers inside him, Andre is breathing ragged, small noises escaping his throat every time Jean-Eric thrusts in deep. They aren't kissing any more, Andre seemingly needing all his concentration, a little frown creasing his brows. His eyes are closed, and he startles when Jean-Eric reaches up with his free hand, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the furrowed skin between Andre's brows.

“Okay?” he asks, licking over Andre's parted lips.

Andre jerks his head, nodding, exhaling through his teeth. “Yeah, come on,” he says, his voice hoarse and breathless. Jean-Eric kisses him again before he moves backwards on the bed, just gazing down at Andre's naked body, his fingers still fucking into him lazily.

He withdraws his fingers, feeling more than hearing Andre's breath hitch. “Up,” he directs, somewhere between a command and a question, his hands a steadying warmth at Andre's hips as he pushes himself to hands and knees, the squashy mattress dipping below his weight. He looks good like that, his back bowed slightly, head hanging, the tension somewhere between expectant and nervous exuding from his body. For a moment Jean-Eric wonders when the last time for him was, where and especially with _whom,_ the urge to know everything about Andre's past that he only ever shares wrapped up in elaborate stories and hints when Jean-Eric least expects them, but that way lies madness and all he wants right now is to make Andre scream.

He keeps one hand at Andre's hip, his thumb rubbing circles into his skin. With the other he flicks open the bottle of lube, drizzling more onto his straining cock, on Andre's arse. Andre shudders at the cool slick, but pushes back when Jean-Eric uses his fingers to rub it over his stretches hole. He gives himself a couple strokes with his hand to spread the slick over his dick, exhaling slowly, trying to calm his frayed nerves. Andre makes a soft keening noise when Jean-Eric shuffles forwards, his thighs pressing against the back of Andre's legs, letting him feel the hardness of his dick against the curve of his arse before he lines himself up and thrusts forwards carefully.

“Fuck, Andre,” Jean-Eric grits out as the tip of his dick is enveloped by tight heat. Andre makes a chocked up noise, fingers digging into the soft duvet. He's tense, and so tight that it makes Jean-Eric's head spin for a moment with the onslaught of sensation he hasn't felt in this way in a long time. He falls forwards, curling over Andre's back, the hand he still had at Andre's hip reaching out to grasp for his hand. He can feel the knuckle white grip Andre has on the duvet, feels Andre's fingers uncurl to entwine with his own and squeeze tightly.

Andre moans, pushing back towards Jean-Eric, his body slowly yielding. His shoulders are shaking by the time he's impaled himself on Jean-Eric's dick, a thin sheen of sweat making his skin glisten in the grey London day light. Jean-Eric can't see his face, can only gauge his reactions from the quivering in his muscles, from the ragged breath he takes, the bitten back sounds spilling from his lips.

“Move,” Andre says eventually, his voice almost a whine, and Jean-Eric obeys, folding one arm beneath Andre's stomach as he slowly withdraws.

“God,” Jean-Eric gasps in between slow, steady thrusts, trying to set up a rhythm. He wants to say more, wants to tell Andre how good he feels, how he hadn't expected this to happen, how he wants to bury himself underneath Andre's skin and stay there, but they're fleeting thoughts chased across his conscious mind, too feeble to put into words with the onslaught of sensations making his nerves sing. It's almost like he is underwater, drowning in the feelings threatening to make his heart burst, gasping like he can't get enough air into his lungs. By now, Andre has become adjusted to the invasion, starting to go pliant beneath Jean-Eric's body. It's a heady feeling, the way he's opening up, Andre's body welcoming him. He'd almost forgotten about this side of sex, this kind of feelings as overwhelming as the pressure when he's made to give in under Andre's clever hands and mouth and the hardness of his cock. He leans down, plasters his chest along Andre's spine, feeling the rise and fall of his breath, feeling the muscles shift as he's moving back into Jean-Eric's rhythm, meeting him thrust for thrust.

Andre, usually vocal during sex, goading Jean-Eric on with talk so filthy it makes Jean-Eric blush just thinking about it later, is quiet, only soft noises escaping him every time Jean-Eric thrusts into him. His hand is still clutching Jean-Eric's tightly, even as he slumps forwards, holding himself up on his elbows. It makes his spine slope, and the angle change at which they're connected, and Andre can't hold back a loud moan then, arching down but pressing his arse backwards to meet Jean-Eric, like an offering before him.

“Harder,” Andre says, the word ending in a moan when Jean-Eric complies immediately. Their breathing sounds harsh in the silence of the room, punctuated by the slap of skin against skin. Jean-Eric shivers, curling himself more around Andre to soak up his heat, wrapping the hand that isn't still clutching at his fingers around his waist, stroking his palm across Andre's stomach until he bumps against his cock. Andre gasps, his hips stuttering forwards as Jean-Eric grasps his dick, feeling the smooth skin over the hardness of him, the wetness of his precome making him slick in his palm, dribbling more over Jean-Eric's fingers as he twists his hand over the tip.

“Come on, you know you want to,” Jean-Eric says, teeth grazing at Andre's shoulder, his senses full of Andre, the scent of their sex, the salty taste of sweat on his skin, the eager twitch of his cock in his hand.

Andre shudders, throwing his head back, but there's too much tension in every muscle of his body. Jean-Eric can feel him tremble against him, around him. “Jean,” Andre gasps, something almost pleading in his voice.

“Yeah, show me, just me, no one else,” Jean-Eric murmurs close to Andre's ear, the words already drowned out by the moan that Andre can't hold back as he comes, his cock jerking in Jean-Eric's hand, his body twitching around him, shivers racing up and down his spine. “Fuck,” Jean-Eric says as he watches Andre collapse forwards, keening quietly. He lets go of Andre's cock, allows him to slide forwards into the embrace of the pillows and duvet beneath him. His own dick slips free from Andre's arse and he reaches for himself, groaning as his hand closes around his cock. “Fuck, Andre,” he gasps out again, looking down at him, at the expanse of his muscular back, his arse, the way he can still see the aftershocks working through his system. His hand is flying over his cock, jerking himself quickly, his other still clutching Andre's hand tight until it all becomes too much, the ball of arousal exploding inside him, flooding his nerves with bliss as he comes, the drops of his come splattering over Andre's back.

He holds himself up for a long moment, just watching Andre, the pearly drops of his spunk on Andre's back, the movement of his body as he's breathing harshly, only slowly returning to a normal rhythm, before he sinks into the bed at Andre's side, one arm stretched over Andre's shoulder still holding onto his hand. Jean-Eric uses that arm to pull Andre closer, pressing against his side, their legs entangling, their heads resting on the same pillow, noses only inches apart. Andre's got his eyes closed, that little frown still between his eyebrows, and Jean-Eric leans in, kisses the furrowed skin.

“Good?” he asks quietly, watching Andre's eyes open a little bit. He looks like he wants to say something, fighting for words, but Jean-Eric kisses him again, on the lips this time, feeling Andre respond. He sighs into the kiss, his body relaxing, eyes closing again as their lips and tongue move against each other in a by now so familiar way. It feels like coming home to Jean-Eric.

Neediness spears through him. He nuzzles closer, wanting to meld them together again. He's shivering in the soft draft as the sweat is starting to cool on his skin, goosebumps racing up and down his spine. It's weird, the post-orgasmic bliss he is still caught up in lacking the usual hints of soreness he's gotten so used to, cherishes, because he knows they'll always linger a little afterwards, in the dull ache of stretched muscles, in the bruises of bite marks left on his skin. Cataloguing them takes up a vast part of his mind when he's stuck in airports, on planes or waiting for a meeting or appointment. Not feeling them right now makes his skin crawl in an unpleasant way.

“I'm going to ruin the sheets if you make me roll over,” Andre says without opening his eyes, reacting to Jean-Eric's pushing.

Jean-Eric snorts, letting go of Andre's hand to rub his palm over Andre's back, through the come there. “They need changing anyway,” he murmurs, groaning happily when Andre turns onto his side, opening his arms for Jean-Eric to move into. He can practically hear the eyebrow Andre has raised disapprovingly. “What, I knew we'd get them filthy one way or another.” He hides his face in the crook of Andre's neck, licking over his pulse point.

Andre wraps his arms around him more securely. “Thank you,” he murmurs into Jean-Eric's hair, barely audible, like an absolution. Jean-Eric still isn't sure what kind of test this was, quite what had spurred Andre on, but it's enough to settle his mind for now, to calm his still skittish emotions.

 

 

“Do you want to come to Seefeld with me, sometime?” Andre asks later, when they're curled up on Jean-Eric's squashy couch, drinking afternoon coffee. He's playing absent mindedly with Jean-Eric's hair that is in desperate need of a cut by now, but it feels nice, making him slumberous, so it takes a moment for the words to filter through the lazy haze of comfort the soft pillows and Andre's body heat around him provide. “It's really nice for training.”

“I'd love to,” he says, twisting his head to look up at Andre from where he's resting his head in his usual place against Andre's shoulder.

 


End file.
